Lost in the Darkness
by Trilliah
Summary: Sam is wounded in Moria. AU, rated for graphic images and angst. Author's note added.
1. Wounded

Title: Lost in the Darkness

Author: Trilliah

Summary: Sam gets wounded in Moria.  

Disclaimer:  Not mine, yadda yadda, etc. etc. etc. 

Author's Notes: Anyone remember me?  :)  I'm here to try my hand at this writing bit again.  Another Sam-centric fic, AU, though I'm trying to stay true to Tolkien's writing style.  

*          *          *

…a huge orc cheiftan, almost man high, leaped into the chamber… Diving under Aragorn's blow with the speed of a striking snake he charged into the Company and thrust his spear straight at Frodo.  The blow caught him on the right side, and Frodo was hurled against the wall and pinned.  Sam, with a cry, hacked at the spear-shaft, and it broke.  

~LotR: The Fellowship of the Ring, the Bridge of Kazaad-Dum

*          *          *

Sam had never known such fury in all his life.  His heart pounded with it, his lungs drawing in gasp after aching gasp as he stood trembling over the body of his master.  The massive orc glared at him, mockery and disdain in his hateful eyes as he drew the scimitar from his belt.  

Sam screamed his rage and lunged forward, ducking the orcs' blow and swiftly thrusting his stout blade under the creature's chest plate.  There was a collective gasp from the others, and they stood frozen as Sam drew back his blade with a grunt and lashed out again, this time severing the orcs' hand at the wrist.  Hand and sword fell with a clatter, and the orc released a howl of mingled fury and pain as it dropped to its knees.  Sam, satisfied he had felled his foe, turned his back and made to return to his master.

The sight of Frodo lying pitifully sprawled, one arm flung over his head and the other resting across his belly, sent all of Sam's fury spiraling into the darkness.  Grief returned, swift and fell as the shadow that had overtaken them so suddenly in the gloom, and his heart beat heavily with the sound of the drums in the deep: doom, doom.

Frodo.  Dead.

Sam took a staggering step forward, one trembling hand extended, and opened his mouth to speak.

What he would say, however, was never revealed, for at that instant the orc cheiftan, in a last fit of vengeance and rage, reached into his belt and produced a long, wickedly curved dagger.  Before anyone could react the dagger was hurtling through the air, and in the next instant had buried itself to the hilt in Sam's side, just under his ribs. 

Aragorn cried out and lunged forward; a moment later the cheiftan fell at last, his head cloven in two by Aragorn's sword.  

But it was too late.  Sam dropped to his knees, head bowed and hands clasped around the hilt of the knife, though he did not pull it out.  He was shaking violently, deep shudders of pain that wracked his small frame pitifully.  His teeth were bared in a horrible grimace, and tears were leaking from the corners of his tightly clenched eyes.  After a moment—though to those watching it seemed much longer—he opened his eyes, and his pale face turned towards his master.  

"C…coming, Mr. Frodo," he gritted, then slumped finally to the floor.

Twin cries of dismay rang through the cavern, and in the next instant Merry and Pippin were kneeling between the two fallen hobbits.  Pippin was sobbing, and Merry was looking from Frodo to Sam as though desperately trying to work out how to help them.  

"Frodo!" he finally choked, turning to his cousin and placing a hand on his shoulder.

To everyone's shock, Frodo stirred.  "I'm all right," he murmured, shaking his head and struggling to sit.  "I'm not hurt."

"How?" Pippin breathed, gaping at him.  

"No time for questions," Aragorn said tersely, trying to swallow the fear he heard echoing in his voice.  "We must get to Lothlorien.  Galadriel may yet be able to heal what I cannot."  He sheathed Anduril and strode forward, glancing at the Ringbearer.  "Can you walk, Frodo?"

"Yes, yes," Frodo said, sounding vaguely irritated.  He held his head in one hand; he had taken a knock when he'd been flung against the wall, and was certain he'd have a lovely knot, but he didn't need a healer!  "I told you, I'm fine.  There's no need for upset."

"Not on your behalf, perhaps," was Aragorn's gruff reply; he stooped and gathered Sam into his arms.  "Come quickly!"

Any annoyance he'd felt towards Frodo a moment before dissolved in an instant as Frodo's eyes grew wide with fear.  "Aragorn!" he cried, scrambling to his feet and sprinting after the ranger.  "Aragorn, wait!  What happened?  What's wrong with Sam?!"

He caught up to the ranger, moving at a quick jog, and for the first time caught sight of Sam.  He was lying limp in Aragorn's arms, limbs dangling, head lolling heavily against the man's shoulder.  He was pale, far too pale, and his home-woven cotton shirt was blood-soaked.  Frodo beheld at last the filthy hilt of the dagger protruding from Sam's ribs.

"Sam!" he cried, and in his grief nearly stumbled.  Boromir caught him, and hoisted him into his arms; in his fear for Sam Frodo didn't protest.  He stared at Sam in horror.  "Oh, Sam, no!"  

"Quiet, Frodo," Boromir said, not unkindly, though his voice was laced with urgency.  "Our enemy will be upon us."

"I'll hold them off!" Gandalf's voice came from the rear of the company.  "Gimli!  Legolas!  To me!  Aragorn, you and Boromir must get the hobbits to safety!  We will join you in the golden wood.  Go!  Go!!"

Aragorn obeyed.  Sam clutched to his chest, he broke into a sprint, leaving Frodo and the other two halflings in Boromir's care.  He had to get Sam to a safe place and tend to him before he lost any more blood, or the gardener would die.

"Hold on, Sam," he murmured as he ran, feeling Sam's weak breaths against his neck.  "Don't you give up, don't you dare!  Hold on, hold on!"

It seemed an eternity before he saw the golden light of day before him, flooding into the cavern and making him squint and duck his head against the glare.  But he did not slow, making for the far stairs and the door that would lead him out of shadow.  

The air outside the caverns was chilly, but he hardly noticed.  Once upon the white rocks and in the safety of daylight, he knelt and immediately laid Sam upon the ground.  He eased the young hobbit's pack from his shoulders and placed it behind Sam's head, then rummaged in his own pockets.  After a moment he gave a cry of triumph, and produced a small pouch of dried athelas he'd saved from Weathertop.  

"Hold on, Sam," he murmured again, then leaned over the young hobbit.  Bracing a hand on Sam's chest, he grasped the handle of the dagger and in one swift movement pulled it out.  Sam arched and gave a weak cry before going limp again, and while Aragorn was heartened that the hobbit had at least given reaction, he was grieved he had caused him more pain.  "I'm sorry," he said quietly, though he knew Sam probably couldn't hear him.

He tore Sam's shirt open quickly, without bothering to undo the buttons, and examined the wound.  It was jagged, and an angry color around the edges; Aragorn wondered with dismay if the dagger had been poisoned.  He didn't have time to wonder long, however, because Sam was still losing blood.  He tore open the pouch and took a pinch of the flower, breathing upon it and sprinkling the dried petals over the wound.  

He might have been imagining it, but it seemed to Aragorn that Sam's breathing eased a little, and the lines of pain that creased his brow softened.  He breathed a sigh of relief—if nothing else, Sam wasn't feeling as much pain as before—but didn't allow himself to pause.  Quickly, he reached into Sam's pack and pulled out Sam's thin blanket, tearing it into long strips.  Lifting the young hobbit gently, he wound them around Sam's ribs, binding the wound as tightly as he could while still allowing Sam to breathe relatively easily.  

He sat back and took a breath.  Sam's pallor hadn't improved any, but it was clear now the young Halfling was definitely breathing easier.  His heartbeat, where Aragorn lay an ear over his chest, was steady, if weak, and his breast rose and fell with shallow but constant breaths.  

He turned at the sounds of footfalls behind him, and saw that Boromir had caught up, along with Frodo and his cousins.  Frodo had relinquished his place in Boromir's arms, and as soon as they were within view he darted ahead with a sudden burst of speed.  Falling to his knees before his gardener, he reached out and grasped Sam's limp hand.

"Aragorn," he sobbed between heaving gasps, "is he…?"

"He lives," Aragorn said simply.  

Frodo's sobs took on a relieved note, and he fell forward, burying his face upon Sam's bare breast.  "Oh, thank Elbereth, Sam, thank Elbereth…"

"Frodo," Aragorn said sternly, as Boromir reached his side with Merry and Pippin, "we cannot linger here.  Sam is in dire need of more help than I can give him.  We must reach the golden wood, and the Lady Galadriel, if he is to live."

Frodo's eyes widened fearfully, but he nodded, his lips set in a grim line.  "Then let's not waste another moment," he said determinedly, staggering to his feet.  

Aragorn nodded and knelt to scoop Sam into his arms again.  Sam moaned at the movement, and Aragorn saw Frodo wince at the sound, but the Ringbearer didn't weep.  

"Come, then," Aragorn said, and took off at a quick trot.  

"Aragorn," Boromir called, "the little ones.  They cannot keep up."

Aragorn paused and glanced back.  It was true; for all they were trying, Merry and Pippin were lagging considerably behind, and Frodo was already panting for breath.  

"We're fine," Pippin insisted, though his face was pale with exhaustion and worry.  

Aragorn shook his head.  "You're not," he said quietly.  He bit his lip for a moment in deliberation, then said, "Boromir, stay with them.  I will take Sam.  You must reach the wood before nightfall, but you have several hours yet.  Allow them to rest.  But not too long," his voice grew grave.  "Even with Gandalf to hold them off for a time, the Orcs will soon be upon us."

Boromir nodded, and for all that Merry and Pippin wished to stay with their friend, they looked relieved to have the chance to rest. 

Frodo, however, merely set his jaw.  "I'm staying with you," he murmured.  "I can keep up."

Aragorn sighed.  "Frodo, don't hinder me," he said.  "I must get Sam to aid, or he will die."   He felt a guilty twinge at the way Frodo's face tightened at that, but he knew Frodo would persist unless he realized he might be bringing Sam to harm.  "If you tried to keep up and fell behind, I would have to stop for you, because it would be too dangerous to let you stay on your own.  In the time I would spend waiting for you, Sam could be lost." 

Frodo opened his mouth to reply, but no words came; his gaze fell upon his gardener and his eyes welled with sudden tears.  He choked, and looked away, his shoulders slumping dejectedly.

Aragorn knelt in front of him and reached out one hand to lift the Ringbearer's chin.  

"Take heart, young master, for your Sam is strong," he said gently.  "But now you must believe in him, and trust I will do all I can to save him."

Frodo nodded; he leaned forward and caressed the hair from Sam's brow, then kissed his cheek.  "Hold on, Sam," he whispered.  "I'll be with you again soon.  Don't you leave me, do you hear?  Hold on."  His voice broke then, and he stepped back and ducked his head to hide his sobs.  

Aragorn stood, and nodded to Boromir.  Then, turning swiftly, he began to run towards Lothlorien. 

*          *          *


	2. Lady Galadriel

The evening sun had stretched the shadows across the meadow and the air was growing chill by the time Aragorn reached the borders of Lothlorien.  He allowed himself to slow some, knowing it would do him no good if he startled the border patrol into firing upon him.  But he kept his pace at a quick trot, nonetheless.  Against his chest, Sam shivered a little; Aragorn paused long enough to draw the young hobbit's cloak more tightly around him before resuming his journey.

After a time he glanced around, surprised to have gotten this far into the forest without meeting any of Lorien's patrol.  Haldir and his bunch were usually so sharp-eared, he had half-expected to be accosted before he'd gotten to the tree line, but he was already well into the woods and—

--the snap of a twig to his right was all the warning he received before he found himself staring directly at the point of an arrow.  He took an involuntary step backwards.  Vague figures previously blended into the shadows stepped forward, and in moments he was surrounded by a dozen elves.  They stared at him, waiting, and he shifted Sam a little bit in his arms.  

"Please," he said in Elvish.  "I need to see her Ladyship.  My friend is badly hurt."

"Aragorn?"

Haldir's voice came from the back of the group; they parted and he stepped forward, drawn brows raising in surprised recognition as he eyed the Ranger.  Aragorn knew he must look a sight; his long run left him breathing heavily, sweat standing out on his brow, and the journey through the mines had left a considerable amount of dust on his clothing. 

"Haldir," he said, feeling a mixture of relief and urgency; Sam couldn't afford this.  "Please, take me to her.  He won't last much longer."

Haldir's eyes flitted to the bundle in Aragorn's arms, and his eyes softened some.  "Right," he said, nodding his head.  "Come.  She will see to him." 

Aragorn followed, silently blessing Haldir's quick decision to trust in him.  Sam wouldn't have well withstood a long and drawn out debate.

"Thank you," he murmured as they sprinted along the narrow footpaths, and Haldir acknowledged his thanks with a slight nod.  

"His spirit wavers," the elf replied.  "He cannot wait.  He needs help now."

Aragorn nodded; he'd felt the young hobbit's struggle as well.  Sam's body was still somehow clinging desperately to life, but his soul was uncertain, hesitant.  At first Aragorn had been puzzled by this; Sam was so vibrant, so cheerful and full of love of life…why then should his soul be ready to reject it and move on?  But as he'd run it hit him: when Sam fell, he'd believed, as they all had, that Frodo was dead.  Was he considering leaving now in order to join his master?

Aragorn's heart clenched up tight at that.  If Sam died, Frodo wouldn't be able to carry on.  The ranger had never felt a bond as close or as strong as that shared between the Ringbearer and his companion, despite all their differences.  Sam loved Frodo more than his very life, and Frodo felt just as strongly about Sam, though the elder hobbit was less prone to emotional displays.  Still, without one another, neither stood a chance.

_Hold on, Sam, _he thought desperately.  _Your master is alive, and he's coming.  Please hold on for him._

Dusk had melted into darkness by the time they reached the Elven city.  A strange unearthly light danced among the trees, and the sounds of mournful singing filled Aragorn's ears.  He frowned, feeling a strange sense of foreboding; he could have sworn he'd caught the word 'Mithrandir' in one of the haunting refrains, and his heart pounded a little harder as his thoughts turned towards the rest of the fellowship.  How did they fare?  

But he could not linger with them; Boromir would look after the other halflings, make certain they made it here safely, and Legolas and Gimli and Gandalf…well, they could look after themselves.  

They crossed a small creek and entered a clearing, lit by moonlight and lanterns.  In the center stood Galadriel, standing before a crystalline fountain, dressed entirely in flowing white garments that shimmered and seemed to be made of the moonlight she was standing in.  Her piercing eyes sought Aragorn's, and he met them as he approached slowly, Sam still clutched protectively to his chest.  

"Aragorn," came the whisper in his mind, and he bowed his head, kneeling before her.

"My Lady, please," he whispered aloud, raising his eyes and feeling them sting with tears.  "Please, you have to help him."

She gazed upon the wounded halfling for a moment.  "Bring him," she said, then turned and began to walk towards the fountain.

Aragorn followed, feeling the body in his arms trembling a little.  He frowned, and glanced at Sam's face, alarmed when he saw the way it was scrunched up in pain.  He winced sympathetically, knowing the pain must indeed be great, but when Sam gasped the word that spilled from his lips was "Frodo!"

There was so much grief, so much loss in that one word that Aragorn knew his guess had been correct.  Sam was desperate to find his master, and if it meant following him past the mortal realm he'd do it without hesitation.  He looked up at Galadriel and found her standing before him, a long silver ladle in her hand with shimmering water sparkling in it.  

"Lay him on the ground," she said, and Aragorn obeyed, unwrapping the dressing around Sam's wound.  The blood had not clotted, and the wound still bled freely.  Aragorn felt his hope slipping away.

"Samwise Gamgee," Galadriel murmured, and Sam's weak thrashing stilled a little as his head turned towards the sound of her voice.  She said no more aloud, but after a moment Sam relaxed even further, and drew a tremulous breath.  A whimper escaped his lips and Aragorn bit his lip; it was a physical pain to see the young hobbit in so much agony.  But Galadriel simply smiled a little and raised Sam's head, tipping it to open his mouth and pouring just a little of the water from the ladle over his lips.  A trickle sparkled at the corner, but Sam swallowed the rest reflexively, and Aragorn was relieved to see some of the color return to Sam's cheeks.  Sam's brow smoothed a little, too, and his body finally went completely limp.  Aragorn watched with trepidation as Galadriel poured the rest of the water over Sam's wound; it sizzled a little as it hit the flesh, and Aragorn frowned as he watched curiously.  After the ladle was empty Galadriel placed her hand over the wound and murmured something in Elvish.  There was a flash of light, and when she removed her hand again the wound was smoldering—but the bleeding had finally, blessedly stopped.  The wound was cauterized.

Aragorn watched the lady's face carefully, hoping for some sign as to whether or not Sam would be all right.  She was silent for a long moment, her hand still hovering over his heart, before turning her flashing eyes onto the ranger.

"He needs the ringbearer," she said without any preamble.  "He needs to know his master is all right.  I have convinced him to remain for now, but I do not know how long he will do so.  If he does not believe that Frodo is alive, he will die, Aragorn."

Aragorn closed his eyes and nodded once.  He'd suspected as much.  "Boromir brings the ringbearer and his kin," he said.  "They should arrive on the morrow.  Sooner, perhaps, if Frodo has anything to say about it." 

Galadriel looked troubled.  "I do not know if he will last that long," she murmured, almost to herself.  "But I have done all I can."

She stood, then.  "Bring him," she ordered.  "He must be kept warm, and we must try to get him to drink all he can hold.  He has lost too much blood."  
Aragorn glanced at the discarded make-shift bandage and nodded in agreement; it was soaked and dripping crimson.  He leaned down and scooped Sam into his arms, wrapping the gardener's cloak around his shivering body.  

Galadriel inclined her head slightly.  "Come," she said, and Aragorn followed her out of the alcove. 

*          *          *


	3. Fading

Aragorn stayed with Sam long into the night, refusing to leave the hobbit's side for even an instant.  He knew if he did, he might return and find Sam had slipped away.

He spoke to the young Halfling, nonsense mostly, hoping the sound of his voice might give Sam something to hold onto—something to guide him back.  Sam was resting peacefully now, in a small enclosure near the heart of the golden wood.  It was built into a split in the trunk of a large mallorn, and it was only about ten feet from the ground.  Aragorn was aware of the innate unease most of the hobbits had about heights, and requested something low, so Sam would not be frightened if he awoke and realized he was not safely on the ground.  But as the hours passed and Sam showed no signs of improvement, Aragorn began to despair about Sam ever waking at all. 

'Don't think like that,' he told himself.  'You're doing Sam no good, and possibly a great deal of harm, if you give up hope.'  

But hope was getting very hard to hold on to.  

Haldir had come a few hours earlier, and stood beside Aragorn in the small chamber.  He gazed down at the small hobbit with sadness and pity in his face, and Aragorn had turned away, knowing the pity was aimed at him as much as Sam.  

"You know he will most likely die," Haldir finally said, gently. 

"No," Aragorn gritted stubbornly.

"You have done all you can for him," Haldir said.  "But I would not wish you to hold onto false hopes.  They are the cruelest kind, Elessar."

"They are all I have," Aragorn replied.  "If Frodo arrives in time…"

"Even if Frodo does arrive in time, it will most likely be only to say goodbye," Haldir returned quietly.  "Even now the young one seeks to be free of his pain."

"It is not physical pain that ails him, Haldir," Aragorn insisted.  "He thinks his master is dead.  If Frodo can get to him, speak to him…" he saw the doubt in the elf's eyes, and pressed on.  "They share a bond none can truly understand," he said.  "Gandalf saw it, long ago.  That's why he sent Sam with Frodo in the first place."  He looked back down at the unconscious hobbit.  "I fear for Frodo's survival, if Sam's life should be lost.  And I fear for the survival of us all."  He looked up at Haldir and said, "You know what Frodo carries."

Haldir nodded slowly.  "Yes," he said.  "We had word from Elrond, some time ago.  Much rests on the ringbearer."

"Just as much rests on Sam," the ranger replied.  "Frodo carries the ring, but Sam…" he shook his head.  "Sam carries Frodo," he finally said, unable to explain it any other way.  "Without him I fear we are lost."

Haldir nodded once more.  "Then for the sake of all, I hope Frodo arrives quickly."

Aragorn nodded as well.  "So do I," he whispered.

There was a long silence in which only Sam's shallow breathing could be heard, then Haldir said, "I will take a group with me, and we will scout the borders of Lothlorien.  If the others are near, we will find them, and we will bring Frodo here with all haste as soon as we can."

Aragorn looked at him gratefully.  "Thank you, Haldir."

Haldir nodded, then swiftly turned and left the enclosure. Aragorn turned back to Sam.  

"Please, my friend," he whispered, coming to kneel at the hobbit's side where he lay on his small cot.  "Please don't give up.  Frodo needs you, you know.  I don't know how he'll carry on, if you leave him now.  Please."  His voice trembled and nearly broke. 

Sam suddenly drew in a hitched breath, and Aragorn's head snapped up, heart brimming with hope.  But Sam didn't open his eyes; instead, his brows drew together and his mouth curled into an expression of purest grief.  

"Frodo," the word was choked, escaping through Sam's trembling lips as tears slipped from beneath his closed lids.

Aragorn reached out and took Sam's hands, squeezing them perhaps a little too tightly.  "He's alive, Sam," he hissed.  "You must believe me.  He's alive, and he's on his way.  Please!"

But whatever dark prison of grief and despair Sam had locked himself into, Aragorn could not penetrate.  His voice did not reach the gardener, and as midnight came and went, Sam's heart began to flutter more weakly than ever. 

"Oh, Frodo," Aragorn whispered.  "Hurry."

*          *          *

Frodo was gasping, exhausted, and pain shot through his side where the spear had struck him, but he refused to pause or even slow down.  Behind him, Merry and Pippin were forcing themselves to keep up, their heaving breaths muted by the determination shining in their eyes and faces.  Boromir ran at an easy pace behind them, having long ago given up on trying to get them to pause for a rest.  He kept his worried silence, reaching out with a steadying hand any time one of the Halflings stumbled or faltered. 

It was well past midnight, creeping into the earliest hours of dawn when only the faintest grey light could be seen on the horizon, when they came within sight of the line of trees, obscured by low-clinging mists.  

"Lothlorien," Frodo gasped, and impossibly, his pace quickened.  

Boromir saw the younger hobbits were on the verge of collapse, and called out to Frodo, but the Ringbearer didn't even pause.  But before he could decide whether to stay with the flagging Merry and Pippin, or give chase and catch up with Frodo, the older hobbit suddenly came to an abrupt halt.  

Boromir caught up, and realized that Frodo was speaking to a tall, fair-haired elf who had emerged like a ghost from the mists.  They were speaking a language the Gondorian didn't recognize, but from the look of terror in Frodo's eyes, he knew it could not be good news.  Just as Merry and Pippin caught up, Frodo turned from the elf and said, "I am going with him.  Sam is fading…I must get to him in time."  He looked at his weary cousins, and pity filled his gaze.  "Wait here," he said.  "Haldir has promised to send others after you, to escort you to where they are keeping him.  I must go."  He turned to the elf, who scooped him up easily. Frodo nodded once to his cousins and Boromir, then uttered a syllable in Elvish.  Immediately, the elf spun and was gone, sprinting through the mists as gracefully and swiftly as a deer.  

Boromir looked down at the other Halflings, who were standing bent with their hands on their knees, gasping and coughing as they desperately tried to catch their breath.  

"Sit down," he said.  "Rest.  There is nothing we can do now but wait." 

Looking up at him and nodding reluctantly, they plopped into the grass, damp from early dew.  Boromir stared into the mists for a moment, but the elf, and the Halfling he carried, had long vanished.  With a sigh, he joined the other two in the grass, and waited.

*          *          *

Outside the hut, the stars had begun to fade.  A pinkish grey light was barely visible on the horizon, well above the line of the trees.  Within the hut, a life hung by the merest wisp of a spider's thread.

Aragorn, who had been pacing near the door of the hut looking for any sign of Frodo, was now sitting motionless at Sam's side.  He had spoken to the Halfling until he was hoarse, begging, pleading, demanding that Sam hold on.  But now he was silent, knowing Sam was far beyond his ability to call back.

As the predawn light began to turn golden, Sam's breast rose once, hesitated, faltered; then slowly sank as the last breath escaped the pale marble lips.  

With the fading of the stars in the skies of Lothlorien, Samwise quietly slipped away.

*          *          *

A/n: Next chapter soon (within a day or so, I hope).


	4. Found

A/n: Any of you who are, or used to be, X-files fans may recognize a theme from One Breath; no copyright infringement was intended, but it seemed the best way for the 'white shores' analogy to fit in.

I feel I should also make a note about slash.  I've mentioned this in my profile before, but none of the stories I post under this name are written as slash.  I am not opposed to slash at all—quite the opposite—but for my own reasons I do not post slash under this penname.  See my bio for more information.  

I do, however, believe in a deep emotional bond between Frodo and Sam; a bond of friendship, trust, loyalty and above all, love.  Yes, the 'L' word.  And my stories—both gen and slash—have displays of physical affection between the two.  If this bothers you, I'm sorry for you, but I make no apologies for the work itself.  Take it as you will, but don't bother telling me my hobbits hug too much.  I'm not likely to listen.  : )  

*          *          *

Aragorn shuddered, his head bowed as his body shook with silent grief.  He reached out and laid one badly trembling hand across Sam's brow, whispering, "Be at peace, my brave friend."

Just then a clatter outside the hut made him look up.  A familiar voice cried out, "Sam!" and moments later Frodo's curly head appeared in the doorway as the hobbit scrambled up into the enclosure.  He stood, panting, his breath creating clouds of mist in the pre-dawn light, and his wide eyes settled on the pale, still body of his gardener.  He released a choked noise, and moaned, "Oh, Sam!"

Aragorn's eyes filled with fresh tears.  "I'm sorry, Frodo," he whispered.

Frodo, who had started across the floor towards Sam's cot, froze and turned to look at Aragorn, disbelief lining his face.  "He's…he's gone?" came the pained whisper.  

Aragorn met his gaze sadly.  "I'm so sorry."

Frodo stared at him, then back at Sam, and for a long moment he didn't move, or even breathe.  Then, so quietly that Aragorn almost didn't hear him, he said, "No."

The ranger frowned, and said, "Frodo?"

But Frodo was shaking his head, his face deadly calm.  "No," he repeated, and he strode forward, kneeling before the low cot and taking Sam's limp, cool hand between his own.

"Sam," he said, clearly and steadily.  "My Sam, do you hear me?  It's your Frodo calling.  Come back to me, Sam."

Aragorn's heart shattered with pity and sorrow.  He stood, and took a step forward.  

"Frodo," he whispered.  "It's no use, Frodo.  You can't help him now."

"No," Frodo repeated, louder and firmer than before.  He stood, without even glancing at Aragorn, and slid onto the cot next to Sam.  He pulled the limp body against him, cradling Sam's head in against his chest, tucked beneath his chin, and continued to speak to him, though Aragorn could not make out the words. 

He took another step forward and placed a gentle hand on Frodo's shoulder, but Frodo merely tensed and whispered, "Leave me."

Aragorn lifted his hand, hesitated, then obeyed, stepping out of the room and jumping lightly down into the golden carpet of leaves below.  There, he dropped slowly to his knees, buried his face in his weathered hands, and wept.

*          *          *

_Silence, stillness.___

_They were the first things Sam became aware of, the first things he knew in the strange place he found himself in.  _

_Silence.__  Stillness._

_Then, as he spiraled slowly upwards out of the darkness, not so silent.__  And not so still.  There was the sound of water, lapping gently against wood.  And fainter, the quiet wash of waves upon a shore. _

_Sam opened his eyes._

_Before him, wood, carved and polished and curving upwards.  And beneath him, wood; an unsteady ground that rocked to and fro, gently.  _

_A boat.__  Barely large enough for one hobbit to lie in comfortably, as Sam was apparently doing now._

_What…?_

_Sam sat up quickly, then gasped as the motion made the boat rock harder.  He froze, and waited for it to still, then blinked and tried to rein in his panic.  His pulse was racing, and his breath coming in quick, shallow bursts that misted in front of his face.  _

_Where…?_

_He swallowed, then dared to lean—slowly—to look over the edge of the boat._

_Not six inches below, water lapped gently along the length of the wood, dark and impenetrable.  _

_Sam shuddered, and sat up straight again in the middle, trying to keep still as he took in the rest of his surroundings._

_Fog.__  All around him, surrounding him, clinging to his clothing in droplets of dew.  He couldn't see further than three feet in either direction, he realized; he had no idea where he was or how he'd gotten there.  Again he had to swallow his panic._

_"Easy, now, Sam Gamgee," he muttered, and though his voice fell muted and was swallowed instantly by the mists, he felt comforted by the sound.  He spoke again.  "No sense in getting yerself worked up, not afore you know what's what.  Now, where's the last place you can remember being?"_

_He cast his mind backwards, but found only darkness.  He frowned.  Something wasn't right.  There was something he should know, something he should remember…and he had an uneasy suspicion that whatever it was, it wasn't good.  _

_What…?_

_Then memory struck like a kick in his gut, and he doubled over, gasping.  *Frodo.*  _

_Frodo.__  Frodo was dead, wasn't he. _

_Sam remembered it now; remembered the quest, the fellowship, the horrid ring.  The mines; the orcs.  The spear…_

_Sam heard a low, unearthly moan of pain and was only half-surprised to realize it had come from him.  Frodo.  His master was dead._

_But then…where was *he*?  He looked around, trying to peer through the mists and the sheen of tears that now obscured his vision, but it was no use; all he could see was more of the same swirling grey.  He turned and looked behind him, towards the back of the boat, then frowned._

_A tether, stretching taut from the stern of the boat into the mists.__  He turned, carefully, until he was facing the back of the boat, then reached forward and gripped the tether a few inches out from where it was tied and gave it a tug._

_It held fast, tied to…what?  Something obscured by the mists, lost in the fog.  But Sam had no doubt he was tied securely to the shore.  He pulled a little harder, wondering if he could use the tether to drag himself ashore, but while the boat rocked a little harder in response to his efforts, it otherwise stayed put._

_"All right, then," he muttered.  "Wherever it is I've ended up, I'm stuck, for the moment."_

_He turned back around, and faced the opposite direction.  He couldn't hear waves from that direction the way he could from behind him, so he figured he was closer to the shore behind than ahead.  _

_Sam shivered, drawing his cloak closer around his shoulders and hugging his knees to his chest.  His eyes burned with fresh tears; fear, loneliness, and above all, grief.  He was lost, stuck in this desolate place, and Frodo was dead.  He had never felt more alone in all his life._

_Then, suddenly, another memory struck Sam, and he jerked with a gasp and stared down at his side.  The knife!  He'd been stabbed, hadn't he?  The orc had thrown the dagger at him, in Moria.  Sam had blacked out, and awoken here, in this strange place.  But there was no mark on him now; his shirt was intact, no knife rip in its fabric and no blood stains marring its white surface.  _

_"Am I dead?" he wondered aloud._

_But no…even as he said it, he knew, somehow, that it wasn't so.  At least…not yet.  Suddenly he understood.  He was alive still, somehow—but his spirit was lingering here in this place, tied to the mortal shores by the tether behind him, unable to move on.  He didn't know how he understood all of this, but he felt certain he'd found his answer.  He was trapped—unable to move on, but unwilling to stay.  He closed his eyes and bowed his head.  Yes…unwilling, if Frodo wasn't there.  He couldn't go back and face life without him.  He *wouldn't.* _

_He looked up again, out into the quiet of the mists before him.  _

_He would go on, then.  He would find a way to get that tether lose, and he would leave, drift forward to the distant shore and find his master again.  Sam closed his eyes and smiled, imagining the mists parting to reveal glittering white shores and sunshine and green grasses.  And Frodo.  Frodo would be there, standing on the shores, a smile on his face, the weight of his burden and the cares of the world gone.  He would open his arms, and welcome Sam into them warmly, and they would be together again.  _

_Sam smiled, a tear trickling down his face at the thought, then turned and looked at the tether.  It was stout, but he narrowed his eyes determinedly.  It would not keep him from his master, not if he had anything to say about it._

_He turned around again, and leaned forward, trying to work at the knot.  It was thick; the tether was at least as wide as all of his fingers put together, and the knot was sturdy.  It had accumulated the dew of the fog and was slippery as well; Sam's fingers slid again and again as he tried unsuccessfully to get a hold of it.  He frowned, biting his lip in concentration, and continued to work._

_After a long time—how much, he could not tell, though he felt it must have been hours at least—he slumped back into the center of the boat, defeated.  He turned again, facing the silence of the distant shore he could not reach, and stared into the mists._

_"Frodo," he murmured, and his voice choked with tears.  He drew his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them, then buried his face in his arms and began to weep.  _

_Then, much to his surprise, he felt the boat lurch forward.  He gasped, and turned to look behind him.  The tether was gone!_

_He scrambled back and looked over the stern.  No, not gone, he realized; it was still tied to the boat.  But now, instead of holding him, it dangled uselessly in the water.  Whatever it had been secured to, it had either snapped or come untied.  And now the boat was drifting slowly, steadily, towards the distant shore._

_Sam turned back around and leaned over the bow, an eager smile on his face.  As he drifted, he suddenly realized he could hear singing.  It was faint, at first, but it grew stronger as he drew nearer; blessed voices raised in joyous song.  He gasped at the sound—it was beyond anything he had ever hoped to hear, and it touched his heart deeply and moved him to tears.  He closed his eyes and let them fall, a smile on his face.  Soon, he would be there; soon he would see the face of his master, would feel the warmth of his arms and be at peace.  Soon…_

_But then he hesitated.  Something else caught his ear, something that made his whole being straighten attentively.  It was quieter than the singing, but it was nearer, and somehow, it caught at Sam's heart more deeply than the music.  He paused, and listened. _

_"Sam…My Sam…" the voice drifted through the mists, so faint he could barely make it out, but it surrounded his heart and claimed his soul.  He released a sob.  Frodo!  Frodo was calling to him, beckoning him.  And Sam would obey that call as he always had._

_"I'm coming, master," he whispered, leaning forward.  "I'm almost there."_

_Suddenly the boat lurched again, and Sam fell forward onto his face with a startled yelp.  He sat up quickly, looking around, and realized the boat had stopped.  Frowning, he whipped his head around, and to his horror saw the tether was twitching, no longer dangling, but lifting from the water,  a shower of droplets to raining from its length into the river.  He sobbed, "No!" and lunged to the back of the canoe, working at the knot again with renewed fervor. "Frodo," he moaned.  "Please, Frodo, I'm trying…LET ME GO!" The last he aimed behind him, at whoever—or whatever—was holding the rope, insisting he stay._

_"Come back to me, Sam."_

_"I'm trying, Master," Sam sobbed, pulling desperately at the knot.  It was working—it gave a little.  "Please, help me," he whispered, and with one more tug he managed to work his thumb under the loop.  "Yes!" He whispered triumphantly, tugging at the knot that grew looser and less determined every moment._

_"Sam!"_

_Sam froze, his eyes widening with shock.  The voice was clearer, now—and suddenly Sam realized it was not coming from the far shore at all.  _

_"Frodo?" he whispered in disbelief.  _

_"Sam, come back," Frodo called, and there was a trembling edge of grief in his voice, mingling with the desperation there.  "Please, Sam, please."_

_"Frodo!"__ Sam lunged forward and grabbed the rope just as the rest of the knot worked free on its own.  "Frodo, I'm here!"_

_"Help me, Sam," Frodo's voice pleaded.  "Please, Sam, help.  I can't hold it alone!"_

_Sam held tighter. "Frodo, I've got it," he cried.  "I won't let go, Frodo.  I won't!"_

_"Hold on," Frodo's voice, a mere whisper now, but Sam felt the boat begin to move slowly through the waters, this time in the opposite direction.  The singing faded behind him, but he could not have cared less, for the mists were clearing now, and he could see a long wooden pier looming just ahead.  And standing on the end of the pier, a dark figure holding tight to the other end of the tether, hauling it in arm over arm.  _

_"Frodo," Sam whispered in awe._

_In another moment, the boat was alongside the dock, and Sam could finally see his master clearly.  Frodo's hand jutted down, palm up, and Sam gripped it tightly.  Frodo hauled him bodily up onto the pier, then helped him scramble to his feet.  They stood panting before one another, staring, then in the next instant Sam found himself crushed in a powerful embrace._

_He returned it fiercely.  "I knew I'd find you," he whispered into Frodo's shoulder.  Frodo's only response was to tighten his arms and rock to and fro in a gentle rhythm, stroking Sam's back soothingly.  _

_"Sam," he murmured._

_"Frodo," Sam choked, still clinging to him. "I'm sorry.  I tried…I thought…"_

_"I know, Sam," Frodo whispered.  "But I couldn't let you go."  Sam felt the warm wet of tears on his neck. _

_"Oh, Frodo," he whispered again. _

_After a long, long time, Frodo finally pulled away to look Sam in the face.  His eyes were red, as though he'd been crying, but free now of tears, and shining with love.  "My Sam," he whispered, reaching up to brush the curls back from Sam's brow. _

_Sam caught his hand and held it tight against his cheek for a moment, then released him and stepped back.  "Mr. Frodo, where are we?" he said, looking around and shivering.  "It's so quiet.  How did you get here?  And how do we get back?"_

_Frodo merely smiled, and shook his head.  "You must find your own way back, Sam," he said.  "I cannot do it for you." _

_Sam looked at him, frightened.  "Wait, Mr. Frodo!" he cried.  "Don't leave me here alone!"_

_Frodo leaned forward and kissed Sam's brow.  "Follow the sound of my voice," he whispered into Sam's ear. Then he smiled again, and vanished, nothing but swirling mist left where he'd been standing. _

_"Frodo!"__ Sam cried, and for an instant he panicked; then a soft, warm breeze lifted his cloak and swirled around him, and Frodo's filled his mind. "Don't be afraid," it said.    
"Listen.  Follow."_

_The breeze stilled, and the voice vanished, but as Sam listened he realized he *could* hear Frodo's voice, faintly, humming a haunting melody.  He peered in the direction of the sound, and saw the faintest glimmer of light through the mist.  He smiled, and followed._

_*          *          *_

Aragorn heard the slightest rustle of movement behind him, and he lifted his head to see Galadriel approaching, gazing out across the Anduin, where the morning sunshine was only starting to melt away the mists on its glittering surface.  She stopped next to him, but did not speak.

He watched her, waiting; she had a distant look on her face, as though she was listening or watching for something.  When she finally looked down at him, he was surprised to see a joyous smile on her lips.

"Not all those who wander are lost," she quoted softly, and inclined her head back towards the enclosure.

Frowning, Aragorn got to his feet and climbed back into the hut.  He stood in the doorway, gazing at the bed, then blinked, and stepped closer, eyes going very wide.

Frodo was lying on his side, one arm curled tightly around Sam's back.  The other was tucked under the gardener's head, and the fingers of that hand were combing lightly through the younger hobbit's curls.  Frodo's face was streaked with tears, and as Aragorn watched, fresh ones dripped from beneath his closed eyelids; but his voice was steady as he hummed a low, soothing melody.  

And curled tightly into the warm haven of Frodo's embrace, his own arms wrapped securely around Frodo's back, Sam slept peacefully.  


	5. Awakening

A/n: Thanks for all the reviews!  Some of you asked about whether this story was over or not—as I think you can tell, it's not.  I'm planning to take it up to the point where Frodo and Sam leave the fellowship on the Anduin—another two chapters after this one, at least, I'd think.  Maybe more, if the muse keeps adding new little twists the way she is.  *shrugs*  I'm kind of on a roll right now, but as most of you know, I'm not always this faithful at updating, and with finals coming up in less than a month I might not be so quick with the last few chapters.  But I've never left a story unfinished, and I don't intend to start now, so be patient with me, and eventually I'll come through.  : )  

On to chapter 5!

*          *          *

Consciousness returned slowly for Sam.  It started as blackness—it had always been there, he was fairly certain, but somehow he had failed to notice it before.  Or was it that he'd been lost somewhere beyond it, and was only now finding his way back?  No matter.  It was blackness, but it wasn't the deep, engulfing dark that had overtaken him in Moria.  No, this wasn't shadow; it was simply black, like slipping into sleep at the end of a long and tiring day.  It was welcoming, comforting, almost womb-like, and Sam could easily let himself drift back into it again, but something was tugging at him.  Some snatch of thought or memory that drifted enticingly near, a wisp of grey mist in the black that tantalized him and pulled him relentlessly forward, insisting upon his attention, demanding his investigation.

So, he followed.  And by gradual degrees, the black around him grew brighter.  

The next thing to return was sound.  Birds, he could hear; here was a finch, he thought, making a dreadful racket very nearby.  And fainter, the swallows and mourning doves answering with their own chatter.  A rustle of breeze through silken leaves, and the creak of a step on a wooden surface.

The last was nearer than anything else, and Sam suddenly had the presence of mind to stop simply listening and to start wondering where he was, and who was with him.  

Moria, he remembered.  Faintly.  What had happened…?  Frodo had fallen, hadn't he?  Sam frowned inwardly; he was surprisingly untroubled by this memory.  Somehow it felt like a dream, something he might have imagined, but not something real enough to worry over.  Or something he'd believed, but had no reason to continue believing; an unfounded fear that had been washed away by the reassuring words or smile or touch of a much-loved and familiar presence.  In his half-conscious state, the memory of an encounter with that very presence still lingered, warm and real enough to comfort him, lull him into a state of tranquility.  

He realized vaguely that if he hoped to sort this out he was going to have to finish waking up and maybe get something to eat.  Then he could sit up and think proper.  

He continued to fight towards awareness, listening around him for any other clues as to his whereabouts.  

Wait—what was that?  He'd thought he'd heard someone, a voice he should know, on the last snatch of his name—

"—can't, Merry, you know that!  Please, I just want to look in on them.  You know Strider said—"

"Of course I know, Pip, but that's the point, isn't it?  We've got to let him rest!  It was close, too close, and Frodo's exhausted as well—"

Of course.  Sam smiled—or smiled as well as he could given he was still mostly asleep.  Merry and Pippin—safe.  Then the others must be here as well, and with that reassuring knowledge it was awfully tempting to slip back down into the warm cocoon he'd been nestled in, allow sleep to wrap him in its embrace once more and return to the blissful darkness.

But another sound—this one much closer—pulled him suddenly and completely to full awareness.  A soft hum, the sound one makes when first awoken from peaceful dreams, and then a low sleepy voice calling softly, "Merry, Pippin, it's all right, lads; you can come in if you wish, but do keep it down.  Sam's still resting."

Sam drew in a sharp breath, and felt the arm that had been draped over him—for how long? How had he not noticed?—shift to pull him tighter.  And that same warm voice murmured in his ear, "It's all right, Sam, rest easy for now…"

Sam felt his eyes prick with sudden tears.  It had all returned, all of it—with the sudden onslaught of memory came the return of the emotion that had been his last conscious thought.  The pain, the anguish and the heartbreak—Frodo had been stabbed.  Now that he was fully awake, Sam remembered clearly, and any notion he'd had of any sort of encounter evaporated like morning dew with the first touch of the blazing sun.  Frodo had been skewered on that spear, lifted completely off his feet and slammed, hard, against the wall.  Too hard to have survived. 

But…he had survived, hadn't he?  Sam could feel his master right behind him, curled around him protectively, holding Sam cradled to his chest in a half-embrace.  There was the slight tickling sensation of breath on Sam's neck, where Frodo's slow, sleepy breathing disturbed the hair at the nape.  He bit back his helpless, grateful tears and listened as he heard the tumble of footsteps against wood again—Merry and Pippin, stumbling in their eagerness to ensure that their companions were indeed all right.  

"…sure he's all right, Frodo?" came Pippin's concerned inquiry a moment later, when Sam thought to listen again.  "He looks so pale…"

"He had quite an ordeal," Frodo said, and to Sam's trained ear his voice sounded terse.  

"I heard Strider talking about it to Boromir," Merry said in low undertones.  "He said it was impossible.  Said that Sam had died…"

"He's not dead," Frodo said, and there was definite tension in his voice now, as though he had gritted the words out between clenched teeth.  "He's alive, you can see that for yourselves."

There was a stretch of silence, then Merry said, "Of course we can."

Sam felt Frodo's sigh, and almost cried out when he felt Frodo remove his arm and shift to sit up on the bed.  

"He was…dead," Frodo finally said, after a very long time.  "When I arrived.  Aragorn said…he'd only just slipped away.  He said I was too late…" Sam could hear the tears now, choking his master's voice and making it a good deal lower and huskier than it normally was.  "But I wouldn't listen."  This last was a whisper, and when Sam felt Frodo's fingers in his hair, there was a definite tremble to them. 

"How is he alive?" Pippin said, and there was something akin to awe in his voice.  "How did you…?" 

"It wasn't me," Frodo responded.  "It was Sam.  I called to him, and he returned."  The hand stroking through his curls paused for a moment, and Frodo's voice was filled with wonder and gratitude when he said, barely above a whisper, "He came back to me."

Sam fought to throw off the rest of his drowsiness, to rouse himself enough to speak.  But at first, the only noise he managed was a vague, "Mmnnnnghh."

Frodo's hand stilled once more, and Sam heard a gasp from somewhere behind him—though whether it was Merry or Pippin he couldn't have said.  Frodo's fingers moved from Sam's hair to grasp one of Sam's hands, and it was with a trembling voice that his master spoke next, "Sam?  Can you hear me?"

Sam fought to open his eyes.  They fluttered once, twice—then, heavy with the weight of sleep, finally opened completely.  

It was bright—too bright to see anything at first.  He squinted, and rolled so he was lying on his back looking up at the ceiling of his enclosure instead of the wall.  After a moment, Frodo's face swam into view, concern and hope mingling in his eyes and tightening his features.  Sam blinked once, then smiled at his master, and the smile Frodo gave him in return could have put the light of the sun to shame. 

"Sam," he said, voice choked, though Sam could tell it was happiness that was making his master's eyes gloss over and his lips tremble like that.

"Mr. Frodo," Sam whispered, his voice harsh and ragged.  Sam cringed a little at the grating sound, all he could manage in his current state, but Frodo didn't seem to mind one bit.  His smile grew, if possible, even wider, and when he blinked Sam felt a warm drop land on his brow.  Frodo leaned down and Sam closed his eyes as he felt the gentle press of lips over the same spot. 

"Sam, I'm so glad you're awake," his master said when he drew back, and for a moment he leaned back, out of Sam's line of sight.  When he returned, he was holding a tin cup in one of his hands and nudging the other under Sam's neck.  "Do you think you can drink something?"

Sam nodded gratefully, allowing Frodo to lift his head and place the cup at his lips.  He swallowed once, twice, then once more at Frodo's urging, before turning his head away a little and chuckling a bit breathlessly.  Frodo smiled in wordless apology and set the cup aside.  

"You will have to try and drink more later, though, Sam," he warned, waggling a finger warningly as his face went sober.  "You lost a lot of blood, and you're going to need the fluids to replace it."

Sam nodded, acknowledging for the first time the ache in his side.  It was dull, throbbing, but not more than he could handle; it was more like the groan of overworked muscle after a day of digging—a _healing_ pain.  Good pain.

"Mr. Frodo," Sam said after a moment.  "I'm sorry, but…I don't remember much after…" he swallowed, eyes suddenly misting.  "After you…you was…"

"Shh, Sam," Frodo said, his eyes darkening with sympathy.  "I know it looked bad, but I'm fine, honest.  Just a few bruises."

Sam looked up at him.  "But, how?" he breathed.  "I saw that spear, and the monster as stabbed you with it.  How can it be you are even alive?"

Frodo's half-smile was a little guilty, and he reached down to lift his shirt.  Sam's eyes widened at the gleam of metal he saw beneath, too pure and bright to be silver.  "Is that…?"

"Yes, Sam, Mithril," he replied, smiling as Sam reached out tentatively to press his fingers against the cold material.  "Stopped the spear in its tracks, though I'll admit being flung against the rocks didn't feel marvelous.  Still, it was nothing next to…" he trailed off, and the guilt in his eyes deepened.  Sam frowned, confused by it, but Frodo looked away before he could ponder it any closer, and when he looked back his master was smiling again.  

"Still.  Best not to dwell on things, as Bilbo always says.  The important thing is we're both all right, and you're going to be fine."

Merry and Pippin exchanged glances, and after a quick nod to Sam, slipped quietly from the enclosure.  Sam watched them go, then looked back at Frodo.  

"Mr. Frodo?" he murmured, and at that soft concern Frodo's carefully held composure dropped.  He closed his eyes, tightly.  

"Yes, Sam?" he whispered.

Sam bit his lip, wondering if this was the best time, but he couldn't help ask.  "Sir…I heard you say…I was dead?"

Frodo drew in a sharp breath and his eyes snapped open.  "Sam…" he said.  "I don't think I want to talk about that just yet."

Sam hesitated, then sighed and relented.  "All right, sir," he replied.  "I'm just…well, I was just curious, is all.  I've never heard of no one dying and living to tell about it."

Frodo released a choked laugh, and looked down at Sam incredulously.  Sam looked sheepish, but grinned.  "Sounds like something out of one of the great tales," he said, looking hopeful.

This time Frodo's laugh was clear, his head thrown back as his shoulders shook with mirth.  "Oh, Sam, I suppose it does," he said when he could speak, wiping at the tears streaming down his cheeks.  "And I'm certain they'll be telling of it for a long time to come.  You really pulled the rug out from under them, the lot of them.  Aragorn's still walking around muttering about how impossible it is."

Sam chuckled a little at the thought, but before his light chuckle could give way to the laughter he felt building within him, he gasped, one hand flying down to clutch at his side. 

Frodo sobered immediately, standing up and hovering over his companion like an anxious mother.  "Sam?" he said urgently.  "What is it?"

Sam couldn't have answered properly, for he wasn't certain either—as he'd laughed, he'd felt a sudden ripping sensation through his side, far more violent than the dull ache he'd felt since he'd awoken.  He gritted his teeth and closed his eyes, breathing in short shallow gasps as he tried to get the pain under control. 

"Aragorn!" he heard Frodo cry, and felt him start to move away, but Sam's hand darted out and closed around Frodo's wrist.  He cracked one eye and saw Frodo looking down at him, eyes wide and fearful. 

"I'll be fine," he rasped.  "Don't bother Strider."

Frodo frowned, and looked ready to argue, but by now the pain really was receding, and Sam was able to give his master a reassuring smile.  "Really," he said, his voice clearer now.  "I just moved too quickly, is all.  I've still got some healing to do.  It's nothing."

Frodo watched him a moment longer, still looking hesitant.  "You're sure?" he said.

Sam nodded, smiling warmly.  The pain had gone back to its dull throb—a little worse than before, but more than manageable.  "Yes," he said.  "I'm positive.  Don't take on so, sir, your Sam's doing right well, all things considered."  He gave Frodo a wink, and Frodo had to laugh. 

"All right, Master Samwise," he said, relenting.  "But you will tell me if you start feeling worse, and that's an order."

Sam nodded.  "Yes, sir," he said, with exaggerated humility, and that set Frodo to laughing again. Sam grinned at him, but dared not try laughing again himself.

The two of them sat, talking idly, while the sun rose towards its zenith.  Sam learned what had become of them, where they were—"More elves, Sam," Frodo said teasingly, "I think you'll be getting your fill of them on this journey,"—and what had become of the fellowship after Sam had blacked out.  

"Aragorn carried you here, and Boromir took Merry, Pippin and me," Frodo said.  "We had to get you here as quickly as possible, you understand," he looked a little guilty at having left Sam's side, even for an instant.  "And the rest of us, well, we couldn't quite keep up with Aragorn's pace.  We tried," he said hastily, looking into Sam's face to make certain he wasn't hurt by what Frodo still felt was abandonment.  But Sam merely shook his head. 

"Don't be silly, master," he chided lightly.  "You couldn't have hoped to keep up with Longshanks, not when he took it to mind to go at top speed." 

Frodo grinned at Sam's old nickname for the Ranger, and nodded.  "Well, the four of us were met at the borders of Lorien by a patrol of Elves.  They'd been…looking for us, hoping to find me before…" he broke off, looking flustered.  "You…you weren't doing well, Sam, and…"

"I understand," Sam said quietly.  "So where are the others?"

Frodo looked relieved at Sam's offered escape.  "Legolas and Gimli and Gandalf stayed behind in the mines, to cover our escape," Frodo explained.  "I haven't heard anything from them yet, but I've been in here the whole time, so it's not surprising, I suppose.  They're probably here, or if not, they will be very shortly."

As if on cue, there was a loud clatter below, and moment later Aragorn appeared.  He climbed into the enclosure and moved towards them, followed closely by Legolas.  Sam frowned.  There was something about the way they wouldn't quite meet their eyes that troubled him deeply, and he was suddenly quite certain that, whatever their reason for coming, it wasn't good.

"Aragorn?" Frodo said quietly, and from the tone of his master's voice Sam knew he'd guessed the same thing.  "Legolas?  What is it?  Where are the others?"

Aragorn looked at Legolas, then down at the floor.  Legolas moved forward, and said quietly, "Gimli is below; he wasn't fond of the idea of heights.  He sends his regards, Samwise." 

Sam nodded slowly, listening not to the words but to the undercurrent of grief in the elf's voice.  "Mr. Legolas, sir…" he whispered.  "What is it?  What's wrong?"

"Where's Gandalf?" Frodo said suddenly, and his voice held an edge of alarm.

Aragorn looked up, then, and moved to kneel before them.  

"Frodo," he said gently, and Sam gasped when he realized the Ranger's eyes were wet.  "Samwise.  I'm afraid…I have some bad news."

*          *          *


	6. Author's note

Hey all—

Sorry for the ever so long delay here. The story WILL continue, I promise! I've just been rather stuck. I had it all planned out, but now I'm having second thoughts about certain (rather important) plot elements, and I've just not gotten all the kinks ironed out yet. But if anyone is still watching this, do not despair! I will return. :-)


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